


Every Year I Have You

by seapigeon



Series: Won't You Be My Neighbor [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Art, Birthday Presents, Falling Even More in Love, Fluff, M/M, Nude Modeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seapigeon/pseuds/seapigeon
Summary: Steve set the bar pretty high, as birthday presents go.Bucky is determined to outdo him when July 4th comes around.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Won't You Be My Neighbor [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901473
Comments: 66
Kudos: 300





	Every Year I Have You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zacharypay1_Alisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacharypay1_Alisa/gifts).



> This one's for zacharypay1_Alisa, fandom commenter extraordinaire, who wanted to know what Bucky would do for Steve on his birthday. <3

It’s Memorial Day, and Bucky still has no idea what to get Steve for his birthday that could possibly compare to all that Steve had given him.

Now, of course he has a few things already. He’s not an amateur. But as funny as the three Jell-O related books are (‘Magic of Jell-O’, ‘More Joys of Jell-O!’ and a compilation of ads for gelatin over the decades which he thinks Steve is really going to like), they just aren’t meaningful enough. Steve _created_ something for him. He even painted the overgrown yard in there - something Bucky finally understands for the gesture of love that it is. 

Boy, had that been a fight when Bucky found out. Steve was that stubborn that he wouldn’t say anything when it woke him up in a cold sweat multiple times a week, and when he finally did relent and explain it to Bucky, he insisted he just had to get over it. The solution was absurdly easy; all Bucky had to do was relocate the meadow to the side of the house Steve can’t see from the front of his. The pollinators will go where the wildflowers are. It’s no disruption to them. Bucky still won’t dump a bunch of chemicals on his lawn but he can _mow the front of_ _it to keep his boyfriend from repeatedly experiencing PTSD symptoms,_ for heaven’s sake. 

But back to the conundrum at hand. Bucky is not an artist. He knows Steve would love anything he gave him, unabashedly, but he wants it to be meaningful. He wants it to get Steve the way Steve’s gifts got him: right in the Feels Box.

The list of Grand Gestures are sadly lacking in this situation. Engagement ring - no. Absolutely not. That would be too much, too fast for Steve. It would freak him the hell out whether he wanted to marry Bucky or not. It’s been almost a year, and Bucky knows Steve is the one for him, but part of that is knowing that Steve has to arrive at these milestones at his own pace. He’s done remarkably well so far. No need to push the pedal to the floor for the sake of a 116th birthday.

A puppy or kitten? Hard to go wrong, but he really doesn’t know if Steve wants a pet. He knows he never had one. Too poor in the before-times, and too busy in the after. He always smiles at the cute cat and dog (and sometimes chinchilla) pictures Bucky shows him, but that isn’t the same as wanting a pet. He doesn’t want to force Steve’s hand there. He can bring it up tonight, maybe, to try to feel him out.

Bucky wouldn’t mind a pet. His cat, Alpine, died during those five years he was gone. Becca took him in and made sure he was cared for, but for a long time Bucky felt robbed and quite frankly pretty raw with grief over it. It was a small thing among many enormous losses, but it was the one that got to Bucky the most. 

It might be nice, now, to think about another pet. He might be ready. Yeah, okay, even if Steve doesn’t want a pet for himself, Bucky is probably going to adopt a cat soon.

But Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve. What the hell is he gonna get for Steve? He’s back at square one.

It’s crossed his mind to offer to pose nude for him. It’s not like Steve hasn’t seen him naked almost daily for the last year, but that’s different. There’s no doubt in his mind that Steve would enjoy drawing him that way. It still doesn’t feel like enough, though. Steve shouldn’t have to work for his own gift.

And that brings him back to something he can’t seem to stop thinking about. It’s never left Bucky’s mind that, out there somewhere, there might be drawings of Steve before Erskine’s serum. It’s a long shot; he’s done the math and no one from those classes could possibly be alive in the year 2034. But people like to keep things. If anyone’s grandson or great-niece found those drawings in an attic, realized who they were of, and got it in their minds to sell them…

It would be a huge invasion of privacy, for one thing. Steve seemed casual about it at the time, but maybe he’s just used to the invasiveness of the public eye. Hell, he said it himself - _this is the most privacy I’ve ever had._ Bucky, on the other hand, bristles at the very thought of someone trying to exploit Steve like that. So what if it was a lifetime ago, and he doesn’t look like that anymore? That’s still him. That’s _more_ him. That’s a Steve that no one in this world knows, not even Bucky. He can’t entirely explain the protectiveness that wells up in his chest. Or the longing.

He’s been holding off on looking into it because if Steve doesn’t care, why should he? He isn’t making any progress on anything else, though. Maybe it’s time to give in to curiosity. In all likelihood, it’ll be a dead end.

  
  
  


It takes a little casual questioning to figure out which art school Steve attended. He went to The Art Students League of New York, which makes perfect sense. It was the only place he could have afforded. Bucky Googles and his heart sinks when right there on the homepage, there’s a section for Famous Alumni. Sure enough, they have Steve listed.

_Steven Grant Rogers (aka ‘Captain America’, ‘Nomad’, ‘Commander Rogers’): 1936-1941_

It says he focused on classical drawing and advertising. He attended when he could afford to, which was common back then. There are a few examples of his work, and a quote from one professor taken back in 1945, after his supposed death:

“ _Steven was genuinely talented. He could have had a future in the art world, but his eyes (and his heart) were always fixed on bigger things.”_

No kidding.

  
  
  


Bucky goes further down the rabbit hole and finds the alumni message boards. It’s a deep dive, and a time-consuming one, but he’s able to find lists of people who likely shared classes with Steve. As predicted, they’re all dead now, without exception. One man, an Isidore Ariti, did live to be 106, though. Go Isidore.

The archives of the message board go back a long way. It isn’t difficult to find what he’s looking for. There’s an entire discussion thread devoted to Steve, started in 2012. A few classmates posted memories of him and those are pretty cool to read.

_Kind of intense, but very smart and funny when he dropped his guard._

Still true.

_Would fight anyone he thought did you wrong._

Yep.

_It’s strange but the thing I remember most is that he gave compliments very thoughtfully and easily but had no idea how to take them._

Maybe he does know this version of Steve, a little.

  
  
  


In time, those nostalgia posts give way to exactly what Bucky feared. Talk turns to the fact that underclassmen often posed nude for upper-level drawing courses, and could actually make some good money from doing so if they were members of the union. It’s no secret that Steve wasn’t rolling in cash. A few people commented that they remembered drawing him once or twice, but none of those drawings survived. 

_Those would be worth a fortune today!,_ someone - not one of his classmates, but a younger alumna - comments. Several agree. Although several others are quick to point out that someone else’s drawing of Steve should be worth nothing compared to one of Steve’s actual works.

Bucky grinds his teeth. All these people see are dollar signs, and a foothold to their 15 minutes of fame.

Until...until someone else chimes in. An 'MBalthazar' says almost exactly what Bucky is thinking, and effectively shuts down the thread. There’s not a single message on the subject after that. Whoever 'MBalthazar' is, they’re a saint.

  
  
  


That should be it. Dead end, like he thought. Only...'MBalthazar' has to be an alum, and therefore, some type of artist. All the names on the message board were formatted in a similar way; first initial, full last name. It’s probably tied to their alumni e-mail accounts. If that’s a real name and not an alias, he might be able to find 'MBalthazar'.

Once again, he Googles, and there she is. Marisol Balthazar, age 54, mixed media artist. She co-owns a gallery in Philadelphia with her wife. 

It’s silly, but he screenshots her response on the alumni message board and sends an e-mail. All it says is: _Thanks for protecting him._

  
  
  


There’s no response at first. He didn’t expect one, truly. But about five days after he sends it, there’s a one-liner in his inbox.

_What’s it to you?_

Oh, he really likes Marisol Balthazar already.

  
  
  


If Marisol is on the art school page telling people off for trying to find Steve’s nudes, he reasons she won’t go broadcasting whatever Bucky tells her. He’ll admit that it comforts him that she’s married to a woman. She’ll get it - the need for discretion. 

So he writes back: _I’m his boyfriend._

  
  
  


Another one-liner:

_Prove it._

  
  
  


He attaches a picture of him and Steve making funny faces that they sent to Becca a few weeks ago. And another one of Steve’s driver’s license, with his finger over the address and any other sensitive information scribbled out with a photo editing app. She might accuse him of photoshopping, and that’ll be that if she does. There’s no other proof he can give, short of showing up at her gallery with Steve in tow.

He thinks Steve would like her art, actually.

  
  
  


_No shit? Good for you. And him. Good for both of you._

_Have people been starting up about the nudes again? I haven’t looked at that message board in a few years._

_-MB_

  
  
  


_No. He told me about posing nude to get me to relax the first time he drew me (not nude). I got worried that if any of those drawings are still around, someone might try to sell them and profit off it. Rubs me the wrong way. It seems like there really aren’t any that survived, though. If there were, they would’ve surfaced by now, don’t you think?_

_-Bucky Barnes_

  
  
  


_What I think is that you should come visit me, Bucky._

_-MB_

  
  
  


What in the hell does that mean? Bucky chews his lip. He sits there and frowns so long that he doesn’t even notice that Steve has let himself in until he drops a kiss on the shell of his ear.

“I’ve been talking to you for two whole minutes. What are you thinking about so hard, sweet thing?” Steve says, with an absurdly fond smile.

“Nothing,” Bucky says, closing his laptop as casually as he can. “What were you trying to tell me?”

“Just that I think I saw a vine borer on your zucchini.”

Ugh. He fucking hates those bastard bugs. “Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He has to come up with something quick; Steve is very perceptive. “Actually...I was thinking about my cat.”

“You had a cat?”

“Uh huh. His name was Alpine. I found him as a kitten when I was 19.” He had been meaning to talk to Steve about pets; no time like the present. “He died when I was away. I never really got over it.”

Steve’s brows draw together in unfiltered sympathy. “Oh, Buck. I’m sorry.”

“I was thinking I might be ready for a new cat, though. Would that be okay? If we got a cat?”

There is zero hesitation when Steve responds, “Of _course_.”

Fuck. He has to go to Philadelphia.

  
  
  


He goes the next Thursday with the little white lie that it’s a work meeting. Steve makes a face - it’s a long drive for a work meeting - and offers to come with so they can make a getaway out of it. Steve only has two remote appointments that he can take wherever, and he never passes up an opportunity to go to a few good art museums. He looks so happy at the prospect that Bucky can’t turn him down. It’s probably the less suspicious way to go, anyhow. 

It feels strange to lie to him. He never has, perhaps to a fault. Early on, he was a little too honest and free with his opinions and wounded Steve without realizing. Steve swears he likes that about him. Steve is weird.

But it is nice to have someone in the car with him, and to pretend at riches in an upscale hotel with slippers and robes and a bed that is too big for Steve’s liking. He has to remind himself that Steve is, technically, rich, but he funnels the vast majority of his money into charitable organizations. What he keeps for himself is peanuts.

“Do you think we’ll be able to meet up for lunch?” Steve asks, with a lingering kiss at the door.

“Probably not. They’re having it catered.”

Steve pouts. “Okay. Call me when you’re done.”

“Have fun at the museum.”

“I will. Love you.”

As always, his knees feel a little wobbly when Steve says that.

  
  
  


The gallery doesn’t open until noon. Bucky wastes time all over the city, but like many tourists, he ends up people-watching in Rittenhouse Square. As it nears lunch time, he grabs a bite at one of the restaurants lining the square and then checks the bus timetable. It’s a fifteen minute bus ride and a ten minute walk from there. He’ll get to the gallery around 12:30. Marisol told him any time between 12 and 1 was fine.

He’s nervous, and the skull-jarring potholes the bus hits don’t help. Everyone else seems to barely notice. He’s never been a city boy; he grew up in suburban Indiana and it isn’t much of a leap to suburban New York state from there. This isn’t his comfort zone.

It doesn’t make any sense to be nervous. Marisol seems like a nice person; this isn’t going to turn into a shakedown. He’s never been good with ambiguity and/or the unknown, though. And he really doesn’t like lying to Steve.

The gallery is cute; grown up without being pretentious, but still with a sense of whimsy. There are four artists showing work currently, two to each side wall, and Marisol’s work on the back wall. There are even a few sculptures expertly placed. Everywhere he looks, there’s something amazing. He’s blinking like the small-town boy he is when someone says, 

“Bucky?”

He turns. It must be Marisol; she’s a tall, muscular woman with curly hair streaked with gray and magenta lipstick that looks like it was made for her.

“I love your gallery,” he says. “It’s the only one I’ve ever been in, but it’s definitely the best one.”

She laughs, and everything about her is warm. It puts him at ease right away.

“Thank you,” she says. “And thanks for coming.” 

  
  
  


Marisol takes him up to the offices above the gallery. There, he meets her wife, Emily, and two other employees, Derrick and Shea. They’re all unfailingly polite. Marisol rummages for a few things and then beckons him into a separate room.

“You know I attended The Art Students League of New York,” she says, setting several large folios on a drafting table near the old warehouse-style windows. “My great-uncle Rodrigo did, too.”

Bucky tries to remember if he saw a Rodrigo on the list of Steve’s possible classmates, but there were so many names.

“We were close,” she continues. “My grandmother had seven siblings but he was my favorite. Everyone said I took after him. He got me interested in art when I was a little girl. My first sale from a gallery show was to him, and he was so proud.” Her smile is a little sad in a way that Bucky understands on a very deep level. “He died in 2010. But a few months before he went, he asked me to come see him, and he gave me these.” She taps the portfolios gently, and then opens the cover. “This one is his work. The second one is everyone else’s.”

Bucky leans forward. There’s a handwritten letter at the stop of the stack. The paper is yellowed and the writing spidery. He looks up at Marisol, and she nods.

_Marisol, my darling, I want you to have these. I probably should have destroyed them a long time ago. Time will destroy them eventually, as it does all things. Until then, I entrust them to you._

_I should warn you that some of these drawings are on the risque side. These, especially, should be guarded, because of the person that is in them. We’ll get to that._

_But first...I’m sure there has been a lot of speculation over the years about why I never married. The answer is simple. I have always preferred the company of men, and it’s not legal to marry one, so that is why I never married. I have had my share of relationships. Some good, some bad, one that was essentially marriage without the paperwork. That was Ted, my roommate. I’m not sure if you remember him since he died in 1989. You were so young._

_So there it is. Your great uncle is queer. Maybe you already knew. That isn’t the point of this letter, though. It’s just an important detail that I’ve never told you outright. It seems silly to keep secrets now, so I won’t._

_That brings me to story time._

_I went to The Art Students League in New York City from 1935 to 1939. There were a lot of nobodies there, me included. But one day, I met someone famous. Well, he wouldn’t become famous until 1942._

_The person I met was named Steve Rogers. He was a model in my figure drawing class, and a student at the League, too. He had a crooked spine. It fascinated me. I was working very hard on my anatomy renderings at the time because I wanted to try some sculpture work, but every model I’d had up to that point was like a textbook. A little boring, really. I didn’t want to make sculptures that were beautiful, I wanted to make things that were real. Sometimes they are the same thing, but sometimes they are not._

_Steve was beautiful, by the way._

_I asked him if he would consider modeling for me outside of class. I didn’t have money to offer but most of us could be convinced for a hot meal in those days, and I knew how to cook. He accepted. Now, darling, I never did master sculpting, but I sure tried and Steve was happy to let me._

_We had a bit of a fling, Steve and I. It wasn’t serious. He was a very serious person in some ways, but he was unsettled. I don’t know how else to describe it. I suppose he was waiting on some destiny that he would have to make himself._

_I liked him. Like I said, it wasn’t serious - it wasn’t love - but he was a good person to spend time with._

_We lost touch when I moved to Hartford in 1940 for a job. And then the war happened._

_I could not believe it when I saw the film shorts. That hero with the shield had Steve’s face, but his spine was straight. Not to mention he was enormous. The Steve I knew was all of five foot four! For a good while I thought it had to be someone else that just had the same name and similar looks. But no, it was him. Steve had turned into Captain America._

_So yes, your tio abuelo dated Captain America. Captain America was - I guess it’s called bisexual, now._

_Some people from the art school knew that. I wasn’t the only one he spent time with. But if anyone in the Army or the government ever found out, it would have ruined him._

_As it was, he was one of the biggest celebrities in the world. News people started sniffing around Brooklyn and the art school. Now, it’s not strange in the art world to pose nude or see each other naked every now and then, but you have to remember the times. It was the early 40s and people were easily scandalized. Dozens of us had drawn Steve; he modeled every couple of months for years._

_We thought it was best to collect up as many of those drawings as we could and either destroy them or entrust them to someone until Steve got back from the war. The group chose me to hold on to everything, and we all agreed to protect his secret._

_Of course, Steve never made it back from the war._

_That didn’t dim the public’s obsession with him, though. So I’ve been holding on to these for decades, and like I said, I should probably destroy them. It feels wrong to do before he’s found and laid to rest properly, though. It looks like it won’t happen in my lifetime. Maybe it will happen in yours._

_Marisol, I trust you to do what is right and best with these drawings._

_I love you so very much. You are the daughter I never had._

_Love,_

_Tio Rodrigo_

  
  


Somewhere along the line, Bucky teared up. It’s so obvious that Rodrigo really did love Marisol to pieces, and the feeling was mutual. There’s also that thread of shared queer experience that always spurs emotion - the safety net of others who understand, and the reassurance that there have always been people like you and always will be. But beyond that...these people, who could have profited tremendously off of Steve’s sudden fame, chose to protect him instead.

That would never happen today. He’s sure of it.

Something flashes into his field of vision. It’s Marisol holding a tissue.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I cry every time I read it. I miss him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky replies, dabbing at his eyes.

“Yes he was.” She closes the folio. “Bucky, you should take these and give them to Steve.”

He looks up, blinking in surprise. “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. They’re yours. Rodrigo gave them to you.”

“And I am absolutely positive that if he had lived to see Steve come back, this is what he would have wanted.”

He can’t argue that; it literally says that was what he planned to do in the letter. Still, it feels wrong to take this very personal thing from her.

“It’s not the only thing I have of him,” she says, reading his mind. “It’s really okay.”

“I just…I can’t believe…”

“I know. Gives you hope for humanity, right?”

It really does.

  
  
  


Marisol agrees to ship the portfolios to him in the mail. He couldn’t take them right then; there would be no way to hide them from Steve and he isn’t ready to explain. He hadn’t thought about anything past just getting to that meeting with Marisol. So, that evening Bucky goes back to the hotel and has a fancy dinner and some sweet tipsy sex with his boyfriend, and they drive home to New York the next morning. Steve talks about the art museums in the car for at least forty minutes.

He wonders how long it’s been since he had anyone he could talk to about art. Bucky can’t contribute much because he just doesn’t have the body of knowledge that Steve does, but he’s getting there.

“What would you have done?” Bucky asks in a lull. “If the Captain America thing didn’t work out?”

“If the serum hadn’t worked out I probably would have died.”

Bucky thwaps him on the shoulder. So fucking dramatic. “You know what I mean.”

“Guess I would have tried to get by in advertising. Or worked in a factory. I don’t know.” He sighs, thoughtful. “It was like that, then. The not knowing. It was more about if you could get work than what kind of work it was.”

He understands that only too well. That was exactly how it was after coming back. Bucky has two degrees and a hell of a resume, but it meant nothing when he wasn’t technically a living, employable citizen. He bussed and waited tables for two years so that he could give Becca _something_ for how much she was helping him. 

“You think in one of those...alternate universes...you never…”

“Probably.”

It blows his mind, sometimes, that Steve has literally time-travelled and dimension-hopped. He’s been to space. Different _planets_. He wielded lightning. And here he is, in a car on the Northeast Extension with Bucky Barnes.

“Where’s your brain?” Steve asks, eyeing him. He always knows when Bucky is starting to feel inadequate. For all that Steve is the one who struggles with being in a relationship, there are times when Bucky feels that he’s nowhere near good enough for him. It’s...a problem.

“Uh.”

“Thought so.” Steve picks up his phone and starts tapping away. Then he sets it back in the cupholder. “Unless you have any objections, we’re detouring to the animal shelter.” 

  
  
  


There’s a white cat with one yellow eye and one blue eye and Bucky falls in love with her. He knows he should try to think of an original name but she _is_ Alpine the Second. And while the original Alpine didn’t want to be bothered with many people beyond Bucky, this Alpine is social and chirpy, and she _loves_ Steve. It may have something to do with the fact that he makes toys for her out of old paintbrushes and sometimes feeds her tuna straight out of the can.

Steve is asleep on his couch with Alpine curled on his chest when the portfolios come in the mail. Bucky takes them back to the guestroom - Steve never comes in here - and opens the package carefully. He didn’t get a thorough look at any of the drawings at the gallery. Now he has the time to really see them.

He opens the first one. It’s the one that contains Rodrigo’s art. Marisol made a copy of his letter and set it on top; he’s not surprised she wanted to keep the original for herself.

The first few are school sketches. There’s the crooked spine that had fascinated him so, attached to skinny shoulders and narrow hips. Steve’s body couldn’t be more different than it is now. His face is the same, though. A little thinner, and younger, but this was a face that knew struggle, even then.

It doesn't take long for the drawings to become more personal. Steve asleep with a book still open in front of him. Steve staring into space with an expression that is so familiar that it makes Bucky ache to see it captured in graphite. Steve mostly naked at the edge of a bed with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. Studies of his eyes, his mouth, his hands, his slender thighs. And other things.

He stops sifting through the pages when it becomes clear that Rodrigo was no longer drawing just a model. He was drawing a lover, and he was drawing him well. Rodrigo may never have gotten the hang of sculpting, but he sure as hell knew how to make lines on paper come to life.

Bucky sits back and tries to process it all. The fact is, any one of these drawings could have gotten Steve booted out of the military and publicly shamed, and that was a best-case scenario. Even the tamer ones in the second portfolio would have caused a scandal. Bucky doesn’t think it would have stuck if it was one of those that leaked, but Rodrigo and his classmates had really done a good thing.

He feels choked up again. The queer community isn’t perfect, and neither is the art community, but they both came through for Steve.

The question now is what he’s going to do with all this. Obviously it belongs to Steve. But should he give it to him just like this? Is it appropriate to pretty it up, make a gift out of it? He’d started this search with a half-formed thought and hadn’t progressed beyond that. Time is a factor, too; he only has two weeks before Steve’s birthday.

If nothing else, he has to take steps to preserve the drawings. Many are on cheap paper that was never meant to last. Most of Rodrigo’s are better quality, and Marisol knew how to care for them, but they’re still almost one hundred years old.

There are people who do this kind of thing for a living. Bucky doesn’t feel like he can blindly trust a random person, though. There must be some kind of Avengers protocol - a list of trusted people. That’s it, then. He has to get in touch with the team.

The only phone number he has is Sam’s. Steve insisted on putting it in his phone in case of emergency.

_If something’s going down and I’m incapacitated or not here, you call Sam,_ he said, and Bucky knows he never really stops thinking about it. What has happened, what _could_ happen. That’s what’s in his head when he’s doing his staring. Bucky catches him at it less and less lately. It’s possible, though, that Steve has just started to do it where Bucky can’t see him. 

He sighs. Bucky gets sad when he thinks about the invisible weight Steve always carries around. But he also knows that it’s part of what makes him who he is; it won’t change. He’ll carry that weight until he’s on his deathbed. Whenever that might be. 

“You’re getting too deep here, Barnes,” he murmurs to himself.

Right. Sam.

  
  
  


He puts the portfolios away and leaves the house to make the phone call. Steve does have super hearing, so he doesn’t want to risk him being less asleep than he seems and overhearing the conversation. A few miles away, in the parking lot of a strip mall, he calls Sam.

In hindsight, he maybe should have realized that Steve told Sam that Bucky would call him if there was an emergency. Sam is on full alert when he answers.

“Barnes? Where are you? What happened? Are you hurt? Hang on, triangulating your position--”

Uh oh.

“Sam,” he interrupts. 

“If you’re bleeding put pressure on it. Elevate it. Stay awake. Can you tell me your full name and date of birth?”

“Sam! I’m fine, I’m totally fine, there’s nothing wrong.”

The frantic shuffling on the other end of the line stops. There’s a long pause, and then, “So I just fell over trying to get the suit on for nothing.”

Bucky stifles a laugh. That would not be good form, especially with someone who barely likes him as it is. “Uh, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Is Steve okay?”

“Yes, he’s taking a nap with the cat.”

“You guys have a cat?”

“Uh huh. Just got her.”

“Hm. I always thought he was more of a dog person. Interesting.” Sam breathes out a sigh. “Okay. You’re not hurt, Steve’s not hurt...so why exactly are you calling the emergency line?”

“Sorry. It’s the only number I had for you. If this is a bad time...”

Sam’s voice gentles. “It’s not. I just assumed the worst. Takes me a minute to come in off the ledge, you know?”

He doesn’t, not really, but he hums his assent.

“What can I do for you, Bucky?” he asks.

“Well, I...I got this gift for Steve for his birthday and I need some help preserving it. But it’s...kind of...sensitive material? And I was wondering if there’s a list of trusted people or vendors or whatever, for you superhero types.”

“Us superhero types,” Sam chuckles. “Yeah, there’s a database. But what do you mean, preserving?”

“It’s art. Old art. It needs to be taken care of a certain way or it’ll fall apart.”

There’s another pause; Sam is thinking. “Is it something he made?”

“Not exactly.”

He doesn’t push further. “I’ll look into it and get back to you. Tell Steve to send me a picture of the cat.”

“I’ll send you a picture of the cat if you give me a number other than the emergency line. I have, like, 800 of them. She’s very photogenic.”

Sam chuckles again, and Bucky’s phone vibrates in his hand. It’s probably Sam sending his number.

“All right, Barnes. Talk to you soon.”

“Thank you. And sorry for the scare.”

“Steve’s the idiot who only gave you this number. It’s his fault.”

Well, that is a fact.

“He probably figured you wouldn’t want me to bother you.”

“You don’t bother me,” Sam says, and hangs up.

Maybe he’s finally winning this Captain America over, too.

  
  


Sam finds somebody for him in record time. He’s amazed enough about that. But then, when he brings the drawings in for the consultation, Sam shows up.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not trying to be nosy, I swear. I had to tell them it was for Captain America for them to agree to the timeframe, and I’ll have to sign everything and make sure there’s a copy for Hill.”

“Oh.” It’s not that unexpected that there would be rules to this. He just didn’t anticipate that it would inconvenience Sam so much. He apologizes reflexively. 

Sam waves a hand. “I’ll take paperwork over cataclysm any day.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” He fidgets for a moment, and then nudges the less explicit folder toward him. “You can look. If you want.”

He knows that Steve and Sam spent a lot of time together over the years, on the road and on the run. They have definitely seen one another naked. It won’t be weird for him to see the purely artistic drawings. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He opens the folder. Two solid minutes pass in silence.

“Bucky,” he says at last, when he understands what he’s seeing, “I don’t know how you found these, but this is incredible.”

Bucky exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You...don’t think it’s strange to give someone naked pictures of himself for his birthday?”

“Well, that all depends on the why.”

The why. That one’s easy.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about someone finding these and taking advantage. Steve’s been in the spotlight for so long. I just wanted to give him control of his own image. And something with good memories.” Bucky meets Sam’s eyes. “He has too many bad ones.”

Sam sighs; some of those bad memories are shared. But then he smiles.

“Something tells me it won’t stay that way,” he says. “Not with you in his life.”

  
  
  


The conservator does an incredible job. Two days before Steve’s birthday, he picks up two gorgeous metal-edged boxes. The lids are hinged so that they open into what is effectively a large binder, and each drawing has been lovingly mounted and sheathed in protective plastic in an arrangement Bucky never could have come up with himself. The conservator went so far as to find names and photographs for the drawings that had visible initials or signatures.

That’s how he finally gets a look at Rodrigo. He was a handsome man with a little mischief in his eyes. He can’t question Steve’s taste, and obviously Rodrigo knew a good thing when he found it. He’s a little jealous that he got to know Steve before the serum, and before he shouldered the weight of the world.

He closes the albums with a little smile. Knowing Steve, the only difference now is the size of the shoulders.

  
  
  


He waits until the evening to give Steve the drawings. It’s the kind of gift that has the potential to overwhelm, and he doesn’t want that to get in the way of Steve having a full, fun, relaxed day. It’s the first time in a long time he hasn’t had to put in an appearance anywhere. He almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“I just feel like I’m supposed to be doing something,” Steve says, laughing a little, when Bucky pours him a second cup of coffee and snuggles up to him on the couch.

“Yeah, you’re supposed to be enjoying your birthday.”

“Imagine that,” he muses.

  
  
  


Bucky sees to it that he does enjoy the day. He cooks him dinner, too, after asking what he wants with the requirement that it be something special that he hasn’t had in a while. After a few minutes of thought, Steve asks him for, quote, something Irish, but not what you’d find on a restaurant menu.

That takes Bucky some time to puzzle out. He gets there, though, and knows he got it right when Steve beams after the first bite. Apparently lamb loin, colcannon, and brown bread are the way to a man’s heart. 

“When I was little,” Steve says, as they sit digesting, “my mother would make colcannon on Halloween and hide little prizes in it for me to find.” He smiles at the memory. Then his eyes well a little, but he blinks the emotion back, smile still in place. In that moment, he can see a deep contentment settle over Steve. It’s a good look. Bucky almost tears up, himself. 

If Bucky thinks about hiding a ring in mashed potatoes and cabbage come October 31, it is because he is only human.

  
  
  


“You ready for your last present?”

Steve lifts up out of his arms, chagrined. “There’s more? Bucky, you didn’t have to do all this, it’s just a birthday.”

“It is not just a birthday. Quit it with that, will you?”

“But--”

“I am going to spoil you every year I have you, is that clear?”

Steve huffs, but accepts it. “Same to you, pal.”

“Good. Now let me up, I have to go get it.”

  
  
  


Bucky is nervous. This is the moment of truth. He hopes Steve doesn’t think it’s weird or invasive or a lame gift. The day has gone so well; if this falls flat, it might ruin everything.

“This first,” Bucky says, pointing to the card. The copy of Rodrigo’s letter is inside. He chews his thumbnail as Steve reads.

First his brows go up. Then his hand goes to his mouth. He looks at Bucky, then back at the letter, and then to the two boxes.

“Is this…?” he says, incredulous.

Bucky leans forward to unlatch the first box. Steve opens it, eyes on him. His expression is difficult to read, but not for long; a shaky breath comes out of him when he sees the first drawing. By the fourth or fifth, he’s fighting tears.

“Tony had a program,” he says, fingers grazing the plastic barrier, “to track anything that could potentially be used against us for blackmail or extortion, or just bad press. I thought if he couldn’t find these, they must not exist anymore. Like so many other things.” He swallows and looks up. There’s something happening behind his eyes, something Bucky can’t decipher. It makes him panic a little.

“I - I just - I wanted to give you something that _meant_ something,” he blurts. What had he said to Sam, so articulately, only two weeks ago? “I wanted to protect you, and...give you back control of your own image. You get to decide what people know about you and when. And that includes _every_ version of you.”

Steve’s throat works. His voice is very soft when he speaks. 

“Thank you, Bucky.”

Bucky nods, his face on fire from the intensity of Steve’s gaze. It doesn’t relent, though. Steve is staring _through_ him. His movements are slow but precise when he closes the album and the distance between them. Steve climbs into his lap, and…

He looks afraid again. The way he did that first night in the studio.

It doesn’t stop him this time. He leans forward to kiss Bucky, hands cupping his face, and in that moment Bucky knows what it’s like to be _treasured_.

  
  
  


Bucky wakes slow. For a little while he just luxuriates in that warm drowsy place, but then he cracks his eyes open. Steve is there, still naked, sitting up with the sheets pooled about his waist and the albums spread around him on the bed. There’s enough room for it because it’s Bucky’s big king bed; Alpine the Second is curled somewhere near Bucky’s feet, too. He smiles to himself.

He doesn’t remember making it in here. Steve must have carried him, because they definitely fell asleep on the living room floor earlier. Steve had climbed into his lap after the gift, and that was where he stayed as the kisses grew needier and the clothes fell away.

They’d never done it like that before - with Steve receiving. It was _good._ So good to see him let his guard down in a different way, and to trust Bucky with something he’d obviously not given to anyone in a very long time. Something he’d maybe not even let himself _want._

He realizes that, up until now, there was still some small part of himself that Steve was protecting. Something he was holding back. But tonight, a few hours ago, Steve gave him everything. 

Oh, shit. Direct hit on the Feels Box. That was the goal, but he didn’t realize he’d feel the reverberations in his own chest. His eyes might be leaking a tiny bit. 

Steve, of course, notices. 

“Hey. You all right?”

Deflect, deflect. He’s fine.

“Yeah,” Bucky manages. “You?”

“I’m good,” Steve says with a slow nod, and a clear-eyed smile that will live on in Bucky’s memories for many years to come. Tentatively, he reaches over and drags the blanket down Bucky’s chest with one deliberate finger, until it’s just barely covering his groin. “Stay there for me...?”

Ah. He has his sketchbook. Bucky digs his toes into the inside of the blanket and nudges it down a little further, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Steve’s brow rises, but he doesn't say anything as he starts to sketch.

Bucky lays there, arm slung over his eyes, unable to keep the smile from his face as he basks in the glow of a job well done.

  
  
  



End file.
